


Misericorde

by Filigranka



Category: Final Fantasy IV
Genre: Drabble, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-01
Updated: 2013-02-01
Packaged: 2017-11-27 18:32:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/665132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Filigranka/pseuds/Filigranka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collection of drabbles and vignettes about Kain and his feeling towards Cecil and Rosa.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Misericorde

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sunnepho](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunnepho/gifts).



> Sunnepho's prompt: The insufferable Harvey insists on calling him 'friend'.

 

 

 

 

**He is Light to those poor souls who dwell in night**

 

I

Cecil called him a friend. Just because he liked him. It was almost a mockery, Kain thought. Things like friendship were to be earned and cherished. One couldn't just declare a friendship – except for diplomats, and everybody knew what their words were worth – one had to prove it. That was what Kain's father used to say.

  
His father had been a dragoon, a proud, honourable soldier; someone worthy. Cecil was an orphan, which didn't make him unworthy, just... not a son of a warrior. A poor child, abandoned by his parents, someone who should be treated kindly and loved out of pity. Yet he had been raised by the king personally; equal, almost, to a prince. A fortunate young man, favoured by the sovereign, someone who by should be treated politely and loved out of respect. Kain had no idea how he should behave near Harvey.  
  
This boy hadn't been born into graces and honours – he had been chosen to them.  
  
Cecil disturbed the old, traditional order – the peace – of the Baron kingdom. And he acted like he didn't notice, seemingly not caring at all about hierarchy and nobles, rules and titles!  
  
There was a jealousy in Kain's insecurity, a confusion and a dash of contempt, though he hid it well. Especially from his honourable self.  
  
II  
  
Cecil still called him a friend. It was unbearable, yet Highwind knew he had no right to complain, to ask for anything. So he gritted his teeth and tried to regain scraps of his past honour. Then he would become human anew: he'd be in the right position to advise them, mock Hawley, laugh with Rydia, make comments about Edward's phobias.  
  
Of course, Cecil would say Kain can do it now. The rest would reluctantly agree. They would agree on everything he said, even the worst. Because he was Cecil, the man who conquered the darkness, the charismatic leader, the man who still called Kain a friend – a good man.  
  
Cruel, cruel, fair Light! If not for it, Kain's weakness could be hidden, considered a necessity: crimes committed by everybody, because refusing wasn't in human power and therefore not a crime or weakness any more. But Cecil was human, Dark Knight, king's favourite and yet he refused; so everybody could, especially leader of dragoons, son of dragoon died the most honourable death.  
  
He couldn't be equal to Cecil, it wasn't just. Yet Hawley stubbornly called him that, not in mockery, but because of deep... something. Kain hated him, sometimes; and himself, for being ungrateful.

 

 

 

 

 

**Misericorde**

 

Rosa looked at him with – no, not pity. How he wished it was pity! He could call it arrogance then; he could think of her as condemned too, though by another sin. But she looked at him with compassion, with agape. The purest, truest kind of love, they said, divine and redeeming. So much better than eros, this possessive, wild love, which makes people's eyes dark and hungry, their hands hot and greedy.  
  
Sinful desire, the emotion of the fallen, the worst love, fierce, savage, vulgar. And yet – he envied Cecil that.  
  
Kain laughed mirthlessly. He truly was condemned, wasn't he?

 

 

 

 

  
**Campfire's burning, forest's rustling**

 

  
Cecil's and Rose love was the purest, angelic kind. Alas, their desire was as earthy and passionate as any other wartime romance. They could die at any day, their veins were almost exploding with adrenaline – and they were in love.  
  
On his watches, Kain always sat close to their tent. Close enough to hear. And so, he was sitting like every night, listening to _her_ muffled screams and Cecil's soft moans. Or sobs, he couldn't tell. He wasn't sitting _that_ close. That would be... not honourable. Undignified. Impolite. Besides, his duty was to watch the camp.  
  
He was cleaning his weapon meticulously, concentrating on breathing; telling himself this is his punishment and this is right. It will fade away. Fire devours itself eventually, they say. But what, if his desire isn't a fire, but light?  
  
His hands were always wounded in the morning. Rose cured them, but never asked anything.

**Author's Note:**

> The first title is stolen from Blake's _Auguries of Innocence_.


End file.
